


sea pearls

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst and Feels, Dark, F/M, Hans Christian Andersen - Freeform, The Little Mermaid AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28247160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: “Will you help me?” She pleads, voice soft but sure, her heart brimming with hope and affection.The witch lifts one pale hand, hard black nails coming to scrape against the mermaid’s soft cheek. “Why my darling girl,” he chuckles softly, “you are asking me to defy nature itself. It is not meant to be.”He is amused. Amused and filled with just a touch of pity.The poor, foolish little creature.“I must at least try.” She continues. “I love him so, I cannot abide this any longer. Won’t you at least give me a chance to try?”(Or, a re-telling of Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid")
Relationships: (Kind of) - Relationship, Elizabeth Midford/Ciel Phantomhive, Sebastian Michaelis/Elizabeth Midford
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	sea pearls

The night sky is onyx silk, dotted with the faintest of diamond stars, glittering far away and barely a pinprick of light beneath the waves of the churning sea. The mermaid with golden hair and emerald eyes continues to gaze upward, her sight fixed on an indistinct point that she can never quite reach.

“Stay away from the shore,” her brother warns, “there are monsters that dwell within those palaces you see. Beasts and creatures who seek only to destroy us and our home.”

Elizabeth listens, does not dare protest, for she has never truly seen enough of humanity to object to her brother’s descriptions.

* * *

She feels like stardust the night he comes hurtling into her wake, all porcelain skin and ocean swept hair and eyes bluer than the cresting tide. He tumbles down to her home below, to coral reefs and swaying seagrass as the aquatic blue submerges him, this beautiful blue _human_ who, for barely half a breath, manages to catch sight of her before the air escapes his lungs.

He is drowning, _dying_ , captured by the ocean that is her home.

Elizabeth has no choice, not when he sways so close the ocean floor, his limbs heavy and soft as her fingers reach out to grab him, her hands pressing into his skin. _Still warm_ , she thinks, swimming with him in her arms.

_He’s still so warm._

The meteorite flame in her heart reignites, propelling her further and further to the surface, burning away her brother’s warnings and their mother’s stern glances. She can’t—she _won’t_ —she refuses to let him die. Not when his fingertips graze against her skin, not when he’s in her arms and he’s _blue, blue, blue_.

He’s too beautiful, Elizabeth realizes, he’s far too beautiful to die.

* * *

When she deposits him on the shore, the pearl moon is carved in two and the inky blue of the night matches the color his hair.

She leans over him, breath shallow and soft and _afraid_. His eyes are closed and his chest is heaving but Elizabeth doesn’t know what to do—when will he wake? She knows the color of his eyes—a magnificent blazing sapphire that she’s only seen in jewels and the silk fabric of women’s gowns. The way the blue sways against the sea’s faint green light, the movement of the ocean never stopping of the fabric to lie still. Instead, it dances, moving so merrily that it seems odd that the human who once wore it could have thrown herself into the sea, so still and unmoving when she reached the ocean floor.

Elizabeth’s fingertips graze his cheek, not daring to believe he might wake but hoping all the same.

His lips are the gentlest shade of pink—sweeter than the blush of the morning sunrise—and it makes Elizabeth’s heart stutter, has her moving in, tilting her head closer to look at him.

He’s all contrast—ivory and sapphire and a heaving chest, struggling to breath.

 _Please wake_ , Elizabeth begs, _please wake for me_.

When his head lolls to the side and his lips begin to lose the rosy-pink she’s come to love, Elizabeth panics. She knows it’s wrong—it’s irresponsible and she should _never_ be using her gift for such a thing but—

Gently, her hands come to cup his cheeks, gently brushing back the sodden bangs stretched haphazardly across his face.

Steeling herself, Elizabeth lowers her head, lips brushing against his own.

Her heart flutters and her stomach feels hollow, thrumming with fear and wonder as she allows the Breath of Life to flow through her, to enter into this boy’s human body even though she knows that, when he awakens, he’ll remember her face. It’s a dangerous gamble to use her gift on a human—not when there are those keen to hunt the merfolk to extinction.

But Elizabeth can’t let him die—not him, not this silk and glass princeling who fell into the tides and slipped into her arms.

 _Live_ , she begs him, _please live_.

* * *

When Ciel Phantomhive, earl and Watchdog, opens his sapphire blue eyes, he sees a delphinium sky and pale yellow sun. His lungs, usually so weak against his asthmatic chest, inhale and exhale air at a steady, sure pace.

He blinks, unbelieving.

There is no ache—no pain—radiating between his throat, lungs, and ribs. For the first time in his life, Ciel Phantomhive breathes in the sharp, salty air of the Devonshire seaside and feels nothing but calm.

He’s amazed he’s even _alive_ , let alone breathing—as if there was nothing to it. As if his childhood and adolescence hadn’t been a fight for breath every moment of every day—

He licks his lips and tastes sea salt (as expected) but something else as well. He pauses, tongue tracing his bottom lip. Sea salt, and something sweeter—light and familiar, like honey warmed beneath the summer sun.

Ciel suddenly rises, hands pressing against the cool wet sand, and eyes searching for something—for _someone_ —that he cannot name.

Without explanation he finds his sight drawn to the blue-grey sea, its waters gentle in the early morning light. He knows there’s someone out there, he can feel it, as absurd as it sounds.

Sharp eyes flick across the empty seaside, taking in the sloughed sand and white foam.

But he sees nothing save for the grey horizon and slate blue sea.

* * *

(He remembers this spot, for whatever inane, inexplicable reason. He remembers this spot, even after Tanaka arrives with blankets and tea and his Aunt Ann running after him. Ciel remembers.)

* * *

Beneath the ocean waves Elizabeth watches as the boy rises, eyes searching for something he cannot see and her heart swells with hope. Was he looking for her? Could he sense that she was near? She yearns to swim closer to the surface, to break through the water and see him again as she did beneath the crescent moon.

Her tail propels her closer until her hands are pressed against the sea rock, nails digging into the algae and eyes wide as she takes in the rich fabric of his clothing and the heavy gold decorating his chest.

No wonder he sunk so readily beneath the waves.

Her lips curve into a faint smile as she wonders—is he a prince, like her brother? Does he live in a palace as they do? Would he be afraid if she rose to the surface, if he saw her golden hair and emerald eyes—would he come closer? Speak to her? She has never wanted to speak to anyone more, to hear their voice and learn their name.

Elizabeth wants to know his name, to press her lips against his again—

She barely moves another centimeter before another human—and then another, and another—rush onto the scene. They surround him, obstructing Elizabeth’s view and she nearly cries in frustration.

But it’s too late, her blue prince is whisked away and Elizabeth is left alone, beneath the ocean waves, wondering and hoping and _longing_.

* * *

She knows it’s reckless—so very reckless—but she can’t help herself.

There is no rational explanation for why—no rhyme or reason—but Elizabeth can’t help but think she was made especially for him. For this boy who came to the sea and drowned so far down until she found him. His skin pressing against hers, his eyes that were open for a split second, taking in her form before he fell unconscious. Elizabeth wants to know more, wants to ask him so many things and hope that she hadn’t imagined everything she’s felt.

So she goes to the only place she knows, swimming to the depths of the cavernous sea, her hair a flow of gold as the waters turn murky, obscured by a darkness that is unnatural and heavy, weighing her down as the gold medals on her blue boy’s chest weighed him down.

She presses her hand to her chest, willing her tail to move, willing her hands to cease their incessant shaking.

The Sea Witch’s cavern is known to few, and Elizabeth only knows after hearing stories whispered by the merfolk in her father’s guard. Biting her lip, teeth white against rosy bloom of her mouth, Elizabeth squeezes her eyes shut before swimming forward in a mad dash, too quick to feel fear until she suddenly finds herself in the entrance of the witch’s lair.

“ _My, my_ ,” the voice curls around her like smoke, seeping into her exposed flesh. “What have we here? A little mermaid lost at sea?” There is laughter beneath these words, taunting laughter that sends shivers down her spine and instills a fear she feels far too acutely.

Out of the shadows, she catches a glimpse of crimson—a hideous, grotesque cinder that reminds of her the burning coal sailors toss into the sea, sometimes still red with remnants of fire.

“Please, won’t you please show yourself?” Elizabeth bites the inside of her cheek so hard she tastes blood.

But she is the daughter of Frances, Queen of the Atlantic, and she will not waver.

“Such a demanding little thing,” the voice sighs mockingly, coming closer towards her. “Have you no patience?”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” She almost retreats, can still the entrance from the corner of her eye and she has never wanted to swim away so badly—

But before she can turn, before she can twist away and forget the whole thing like a bad dream, Elizabeth comes face to face with a creature that she isn’t sure ought to exist.

The face is not handsome—it is otherworldly. Elegant features, a cut-glass jaw, and regal bearing. Black bangs float across his forehead, both obscuring and enhancing the hideous vermillion of his burning crimson eyes. His mouth is curled in a half-smile, hungry and derisive, as if her very presence were a joke she could not possibly understand.

His arms are crossed across a chest that is human but beneath his waist stretch eight pitch-black tentacles, tense and long, ready to impale her should she come too close.

“H-hello.” She barely manages, hands pressed together. “Might I have the pleasure of addressing you as the Sea Witch?”

One fine black brow arches and suddenly, his eyes no longer burn with empty cruelty. They instead light up with amusement—a vicious sort of amusement, yes, but Elizabeth prefers it over the emptiness of before.

“Is that what they call me?” He tilts his head to the side. “What a wretched thing to say.” He sighs, looking almost morose and Elizabeth opens her mouth to apologize—to ask for his name instead—when suddenly, without warning or pause, he’s right in front of her, face an inch from her own, and she feels the blood in her veins freeze.

His features are sharp—so sharp she’s afraid one wrong move will result in her bleeding out on the bottom of the ocean floor.

“Little princess,” he whispers, “you’re even lovelier than I remember.” She sees him raise one hand, can see the pitch-black nails on long, pale fingers and she struggles to remain still, to not turn away with a half-open heart, terrified and so very foolish. He leans closer, cheek almost grazing her own as he murmurs into her ear. “Lovelier than your mother.”

“My mother?” She turns to him, eyes wide. “How are you familiar with my mother?”

“Lovely girl,” he leans back, “I’ve been around for _centuries_. This cycle of the royal family has been my favorite, did you know that? All pearls and emeralds.” He smiles, features flickering between normality and savagery.

She exhales and fixes her gaze to his. “Please,” Elizabeth breathes, “if you would spare me a moment of your time—“

“Time? Time, dear girl, is all I have.” The bitterness in his voice does not escape her and she wants to ask why, wants to reach out and _understand_ , but then she glances down, sees the swirling black tentacles and darkness of the never-ending abyss.

Swallowing hard, Elizabeth endeavors to continue. “I know you possess great power. And great prowess.” These words catch his attention and his smile widens, ever so slightly. “If you could find it in your heart to grant me this wish, I shall give you any payment you desire.”

“Oh?” He’s intrigued now, Elizabeth can tell. His voice has turned silken—slippery and smooth. “Tell me little princess, what is this wish you have that should send you plunging headfirst into my lair?” He circles Elizabeth, his burning crimson eyes moving from her eyes to her cheekbones to the soft ripeness of her mouth. “Are you in _love_ , little princess?” He purrs.

She bites her tongue, not daring to speak.

The sudden, sharp nod is all she’s able to give.

“Oh my poor girl,” he mocks laughingly, “you might be better suited for a fate alone than one involving impossible loves.” The creature stops circling, one tentacle coming to push at her spine ever so gently. It startles Elizabeth, and the force of his gentle push propels her into his open embrace.

One arm encircles her waist, the other comes to find her chin, tilting her head up for him to observe. “Save yourself little princess,” he murmurs, “fate is not kind to those who wish to change.”

“Please,” one hand comes to press against his chest. “Won’t you even consider—?” She pauses, almost startled by what she feels.

A heartbeat, pulsing beneath skin and bone.

She looks up at him, expression stunned, and she catches the look of amusement etching its way to the corner of his mouth.

“Something wrong, little princess?”

“No! I—no,” she shakes her head even as her mind screams _yes, yes of course! You’re made of flesh and blood and bone and somehow, even with your heartbeat pressed against my palm, I still can’t believe you’re one of us. That you’re_ ** _real_** _._

“I have been around for longer than I care to admit,” he studies her face, “but every body needs a heart. And every pulse is a pump of blood rushing through the veins. Does that surprise you, little princess?”

“Elizabeth.” She suddenly blurts out. “Please, I can’t bear the formality. My name is Elizabeth.”

“ _Elizabeth_.” The vowels run over his tongue, turning to wine—intoxicating and heavy. “Lovely, _regal_ Elizabeth.”

“I do believe you might have me confused with another.” Out of all the descriptions she’s been given, no one has ever called her regal.

“And modest.” He fingers dance along her jawline, brushing aside strands of her golden hair and it is only then that Elizabeth realizes she is still intwined in his embrace. 

“I know the price that must be paid,” she whispers, eyes closing at the memory of her blue boy, falling so gently into the sea. “But I will pay your price gladly if you could give me this.” She looks up, the intensity of her emerald gaze lighting up the darkness of the sea’s depths. “Will you help me?” She pleads, voice soft but sure, her heart brimming with hope and affection.

The witch lifts one pale hand, hard black nails coming to scrape against the mermaid’s soft cheek. “Why my darling girl,” he chuckles softly, “you are asking me to defy nature itself. It is not meant to be.”

He is amused. Amused and filled with just a touch of pity.

The poor, foolish little creature.

“I must at least try.” She continues. “I love him so, I cannot abide this any longer. Won’t you at least give me a chance to try?”

So.

She wants to _try_ does she?

* * *

“I am not kind, little princess, and my payment is steep.” One hand clutches at her arm, nails digging into her skin. “Once you pay the toll you must cross the bridge. There will be no revocation.”

She swallows. “I understand.”

“Then tell me,” he leans in close, “ _what do you wish for_?”

“I wish…I wish to be human.” She whispers. “To be able to walk on land—to see _him_.”

“Oh? I’m afraid I shall need some specificity, even I cannot discern much from a description as vague as the one you’ve given.”

Elizabeth blushes, suddenly feeling very young and very stupid. She has no name to give him. Nothing except for—

“He’s a boy, around my age. With porcelain skin and delicate features and he’s…he’s blue.” She can’t think of another description for someone like him. “He’s blue and so very beautiful and he wears medals of gold on his chest.”

“Gold medals?”

“Yes, one of them had rose thorns carved into it—“

“Ah,” the witch’s eyes darken, “the Phantomhive boy.”

“Phantomhive?” She asks. “Is that his name?”

“Partly.” The Sea Witch nods. “The heir of Vincent Phantomhive. I believe they christened him Ciel.”

 _Ciel_.

 _Ciel, Ciel, Ciel_. She feels warmth rushing through her. A name. She has a name! _Ciel_. Her mind whispers it again and again, memorizing this name and impressing it into her heart.

“A spoiled, wretched thing.” The witch’s cut as sharp and swift as her mother’s blade. “Nothing noteworthy or worthwhile. A rather poor trade, little princess. Your life for his affection.”

It unnerves her, the way his warnings come and go. She does not know if he’s trying to confuse her for his own amusement or if this is simply his method of madness.

She swims forward. “I shall remember it. But what of your payment?” She gazes up at him, watches as the witch’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before a slow, fluid smile appears on his lips.

“Oh little princess,” he hand comes to trace her collarbone, fingertips dancing across the delicate skin, “creatures such as I are selfish. We yearn to keep the things we enjoy.” His voice darkens, wrapping around Elizabeth like black silk. “And I’ve very much come to enjoy you.”

Her breath hitches.

“To grant your wish,” his lips dance so close to her own, “you must give me this—your voice and your vow.”

“My vow—?”

“On the night of the new moon, three days from now, you must have won this wretched boy’s love or else forfeit your soul to me.” His scent fills Elizabeth, cold and sharp and sweet. She feels the way she did when she’d drunk far too much elodea wine—and it sickens her. “Is that so much to ask?” There is a softness in his voice that startles her. “Lovely as you are, princess, I shall need an answer soon.”

_Her brother. Her father. Her beloved mother._

Elizabeth squeezes her eyes shut. She is selfish—so horribly selfish and self-indulgent—but her heart is fracturing to pieces and her hands are curled into fists by her side.

 _Forgive me,_ she silently begs, _forgive me Edward, and father, and mother. Please, I pray you might one day forgive me._

Raising her chin, Elizabeth finds it in herself to answer.

* * *

“Yes.”

* * *

He’s walking by the Devonshire coast, patent leather shoes stained with sand and salt and for the first time in his life, Ciel is willing to sacrifice presentation in favor of indulgence.

Sapphire eyes scan the coast, the voice in the back of his head whispering that this whole trip is _utter nonsense_. Wasn’t it enough that he nearly drowned at sea? Wasn’t it enough that he’d had to endure two whole days of his Aunt Ann’s fury and terror, of her confining him to a bed for 48 hours despite how he, for the first time since his birth, had been able to _breathe_.

He can’t shake the feeling that there’s someone he’s meant to be looking for. He knows that coming down to Devonshire wasn’t his choice—it was an order thinly veiled as a request by her majesty, Queen Victoria, and Ciel was in no position to refuse. Bad enough that he’d nearly botched a mission (even with Tanaka and Finny by his side) but to hear her majesty gently chide him, asking if _perhaps he was not yet ready to handle the position his father so expertly wielded for more than a decade and a half_ , and _perhaps dear Vincent could cut his trip short_ so he could return and advise Ciel as if he were a schoolboy in need of a reprimand.

Ciel knows his father and mother have earned their time of escape—to be able to travel the Continent and do whatever it is married couples in love are supposed to do without the threat of death looming over them every hour of every day.

Instead, he remains there on the shoreline, the breeze cool and brisk but for the first time, he feels no worry.

His breathing is measured and without struggle. He will not falter and he knows it is only because of some bizarre miracle he’s half-sure he dreamed up while drowning beneath the waves.

He remembers golden hair, moonlit skin, and eyes greener than the proud English pines that dotted Eastern Essex.

Ciel has told no one of this, lest they surmise he’s gone mad. Chasing after an impossible beauty buried beneath the waves of Devonshire.

It was pathetic, the more he thought about it.

Closing his eyes, Ciel turns away from the crashing waves, prepared to end this foolishness once and for all.

He’s barely taken a dozen steps when he hears a cough and irrationally—impossibly—Ciel spins around, eyes fixed on wherever that sound came from when suddenly—

His eyes land on shimmering gold, a pale arm coming forth to brush away strands of sunshine bright hair to reveal the very face that’s haunted his dreams for the past two nights. Eyes of deep, emerald green look towards the sky and then the shoreline, an expression of bemused curiosity coming across her delicate visage. Struggling to stand, she pushes more of her heavy golden hair away to reveal—

She is a goddess made flesh, that is all that crosses his mind when she attempts to rise, hands gripping onto the grey stone boulder, fingers digging into the hard rock as she attempts to stand. Rosy-pale skin, beautifully formed legs, a waist so perfectly shaped she would have no need for a corset—

Before his eyes can go higher, Ciel realizes what he’s doing. The tidal wave of shame that crashes over him is intense and unrelenting. Lowering his gaze, Ciel approaches her, peeling off his jacket so she might have something to cover herself.

He comes towards her, footsteps faltering when she suddenly looks up, eyes finding him barely half a dozen steps away.

She gasps, moving backward and stumbling, body falling against sea foam and blue water.

“Are you alright?” Ciel moves forward, one hand coming to reach for her, to pull her from the waves—

Instead, she looks at him with wide jade eyes, head tilting to take in his features with an intensity that should be out of place on this sea-drenched woman with her half-parted lips and rose-stained cheeks.

“Here,” Ciel strives to make his voice gentle, to approach her slowly and carefully. There is no reason for him to take such care—there’s no reason for him to even speak to her, not the callous Queen’s Watchdog who killed dispassionately and brushed the blood from his jacket with impatient acceptance. “Are you cold?” The weather is chilly—a bleak March afternoon—and she is all but bare, lying in freezing water, and yet her mouth is ruddy, full and sweet, and Ciel attempts to look at her jaw instead, striving to regain control.

The girl—woman?—lifts her hand and Ciel sees her fine-boned wrist, her delicate fingers and the way she moves with elegant precision, the way a ballerina might grace the theatre stage.

Slowly, Ciel comes closer, jacket in his arms as he crouches down, slowly draping the wool and velvet fabric over her.

“I’ll need to take you inside,” he points towards the looming mansion, “my aunt’s a doctor—one of the best—she can look after you for the time being.”

The girl nods, a shy smile on her face as she attempts to stand, legs unsteady and body unsure. She ends up falling against Ciel, forcing his free arm to wrap around her waist, fingers brushing against silken skin before he yanks his jacket close, fingers coming to button the front of jacket with embarrassed urgency.

His grip around her waist tightens as she stands and he immediately feels an irrational surge of concern.

Her waist is so small that he can feel the individual ribs on either side of her slim torso. When was the last time she ate? What type of food might she like? Bard was a wretched cook but Aunt Ann’s personal chef, Hanson, was more than adequate. They’d have to start her off with consume, to get some nourishment into her body without shocking her digestive system—

Beside him, he feels her grip on his shoulders tighten as she place one foot in front of the other, growing steadier as they continue their way across the beach.

“Might you give me your name?” He murmurs softly, gently tugging her closer to his side to avoid her tripping over a discarded monocle case someone had recently abandoned.

The girl turns her head, mouth forming words but no sound echoing.

He blinks.

The girl tires again, mouth carefully forming syllables that Ciel finally remembers to read.

_E-liz-a-beth_

She points to herself.

“Elizabeth?”

This time, her smile is brighter than the Roman sun.

“Elizabeth.” He murmurs to himself before suddenly turning to her again. “Can you speak?”

Her smile falters, eyes flickering to the sand for a brief moment before gazing up at him again, her smile considerably sadder as she shakes her head. _No_. She looks like she’s prepared for his disappointment—for him to abandon her on the beach even—but Ciel’s own body seems incapable of letting her go, never mind the fact that his own inner circle has been cobbled together with the outcasts of the world.

One of her delicate hands comes to trace something on the exposed skin of the arm wrapped so tightly around her waist.

 _I’m sorry_.

Sorry?

Ciel glances down at his wrist, at her forefinger tracing words and her own expression contrite and sorrowful.

“Don’t be.” He says immediately, inwardly wincing at the sharp command in his voice but unable to help it. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

She peeks out from behind golden bangs. _Really?_ She traces against his wrist.

A faint half-smile appears on his lips. “Really.” He confirms.

It’s almost worth the sand and the cold ocean water when she leans against his chest, fingers curling around his wrist as they continue their journey to the beach house.

* * *

Elizabeth is sent to be examined by Madam Red and Ciel is loathe to let her go. But when his gorgeously strong-willed crimson aunt boots Ciel from her bedchamber, Ciel complies and contents himself with the fragrance of sunshine and sea salt surrounding him as he sits behind his grand rosewood desk, struggling in vain to concentrate under the dying afternoon light.

* * *

“She’s beautiful but she’s mute.” Madam Red slams open his study room doors, startling Ciel enough that he barely has time to glare before she’s upon him, arms crossed and expression critical. “Where did you find her?”

“I told you,” the earl sets down his fountain pen, “she was alone and half-drowned on the beach.”

“So you decided to just take her in? Bring her into your home, this strange, mysterious girl you found lying on the surf?” Her tone is derisive so very similar to Ciel’s own that he has to bite back a smirk. “Don’t you dare laugh, I may be your aunt but I swear to god Ciel, this is the most thoughtless thing you’ve ever done.”

He doesn’t doubt it.

“Do you know what I learned about her after two hours poking and prodding that poor girl while she sat there, dead silent, studying me with those absurdly expressive eyes of hers?” She slams her hands down on his desk. “Nothing. Absolutely _nothing_. When I asked her where she’s from she told me she’s from the _sea_. She’s from the bloody _ocean_ , Ciel. Either that girl has all the sense of an _infant_ or you’ve brought home a mad woman.”

“She can’t speak at all?”

“Not a single word.” The setting sun bathes her in molten gold, accentuating the amber of her eyes and making his aunt appear more hellish than human. “She’s dangerous, nephew of mine.”

“Dangerous?” The thought is preposterous. “She’s a young woman who can’t speak and is entirely alone in the world. When I met her she could hardly walk. I posit she’s from the Continent. A storm surprised her ship and the crew, resulting in Elizabeth as the only survivor.”

Crimson lips quirked as the Madam studied her nephew. “ _Her_ ship?”

He rises from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. “She can’t be anything else but nobility.” He declares decisively. “Her hands have never seen a day’s hard labor. Her skin unblemished.”

“You sound almost enamored.” She studies him.

He turns from her, body turning to the heavy glass windows spanning floor to ceiling. “I’m nothing of the sort.”

“Then let her leave. I can take her to the clinic to have her properly examined—“

“Location is of little importance when the doctor examining her is the best in the country.” He tilts his head, flashing her a rare smile that looks so much like Vincent she thinks she can hear her heart break. “Elizabeth will remain here.” There is a firmness to his voice, one that books no argument.

“Very well.” She resigns. “She will remain here.” Madam Red turns to leave, crimson silk following her until she reaches the mahogany doorway, fingers brushing against the carved wood. “But know this—every spring comes to an end. And so will every summer. Once autumn arrives, you will leave for London. And then where will this strange creature go?”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Please don't hate me, I have so many unfinished stories but I've been working on this fic for longer than I care to admit lol I was going to post the whole thing but figured it might be easier to digest if it were broken up into multiple parts. 
> 
> Wishing everyone a safe and enjoyable winter holiday!


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